


A Young Man Built to Fall

by februaryink



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love Letters, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:57:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2585576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/februaryink/pseuds/februaryink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secretly in love with Steve Rogers since childhood, Bucky Barnes wrote him countless letters during the war, to be delivered in case Bucky died in the line of duty. When Bucky fell from the train, Steve jumped too and rescued his best friend. They couldn't save his arm, but Steve saved his life, and Bucky was grateful. That was, until Steve crashed a plane into the Arctic, and Bucky discovered he'd lost more than he ever knew about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Young Man Built to Fall

**Author's Note:**

> -This is SO SAD, I'M SORRY, but I had to get it out of my head. <3  
> -The letter chronology is off-set from the narrative chronology.  
> -Thanks for reading!

It was September, though Bucky had lost track of the number date. His pen paused at the top of the page he’d been writing on, hesitating after the name of the month. He licked his lips briefly before sucking on the bottom one, struggling to remember without having to pull out one of the other letters he’d written the day before to check. It was frustrating; he felt like his memory was getting worse. Dugan had told him he was just being paranoid more than once, but Bucky couldn’t help but feel like something inside his head had ... shifted. Changed. Scowling, he rubbed the corner of one eye with his thumb, then scribbled a number and the year down. That was close enough. It wasn’t like the recipient would be checking a damn calendar, after all. Bucky folded the letter up hastily and stuffed it into an envelope.

As he climbed up off of his cot, he tucked the envelope into the inside of his jacket and buttoned up. It got colder here than it ever did at home, it seemed like. Cold and wet, with the accursed neverending rain. Or maybe that was just his imagination too. They had set up camp somewhere just north of the Italian border in Switzerland, and Bucky was sure they’d all be wading through snow soon enough. It was a strategic position, safe enough for the time being, and would give them a good starting point when they aimed for another Hydra facility to the east.

Bucky grabbed a hat to shove down onto his head before he ducked through his tent flaps, shoulders hunching a bit against the temperature. It was grub time, and he couldn’t wait to stuff hot stew into his mouth and get warmed up from the inside out. At least for a few minutes. That full sated feeling never seemed to last long anymore. He’d felt ... unsettled, ever since Steve had pulled him off of that table and they’d gotten out against all odds. Maybe that was normal, but it still felt off to Bucky. 

His boots crunched over the dirt as he headed for the makeshift mess hall that had been set up. It wasn’t raining now, but the lead-gray skies continued to threaten it. Bucky nodded as he passed someone without hardly seeing them, his gaze hunting for Gabe or Jim. They were his letter-holders, and they were probably tired of getting more of them from him to hang on to, but Bucky couldn’t care. He’d found he had a lot of things to say to Steve; things he couldn’t say unless he died out here. 

With one more glance at the foreboding sky, Bucky ducked under the tent flap.

~~~~

_August 28, 1944_

_Dear Stevie,_

_Sometimes I think this war won’t ever end. We’re in northern France now, making our way east. I feel like I’ve been here for years already. It’s getting colder at night, the leaves are starting to change. I catch you looking sometimes, and I know you’re thinking of home. I know I do, when I see them. Crisp fall days when both moms kicked us out of the house. We’d go down to Prospect Park, walk around the Gardens. Climb trees, throw stuff at squirrels. Look at the girls._

_There’s nobody I want to look at but you, here. I try not to do it too much. The guys like you, but you never know, right? You might be twice your normal size now, but I can still read your eyes like a book, Stevie. You still got the world on your shoulders, and I’m not going to add to the burden if I can help it. I’ve lived with not having you this long, I can do it some more. My whole life, if I have to._

_Whoever said war was hell wasn’t there with his best friend. It’s worse._

_Love,  
Bucky_

~~~~

It was quiet now, nothing but his own short hard breaths in his ears. Bucky stared upward, watching the snowflakes drifting down to him out of the lead-gray sky. They caught in his lashes, melted against his skin. The pain had been unbelievably intense at first, bright and hot like the sun, but it had faded away, and he was grateful for it. He couldn’t feel much of anything now, and that was just as well. He was sleepy, but he was fighting to stay awake because ... because his mom had let them set up his camping tent on the roof of their building, and Steve always drew funny things on his arms when he fell asleep first. Didn’t he?

Bucky’s head turned against the snowpack, and there he was. A teenage version of Steven Grant Rogers, all big ears and acne and gawky limbs, watching him. He had his sketchpad on his lap, as per usual, and he looked like he was drawing Bucky. Steve smiled, and Bucky felt himself try to smile back. That smile had always been so beautiful, even when they were kids and Steve’s front teeth were like a rabbit’s. They were straight enough now, and bright. 

_I wanna go home,_ he tried to say. All that came out was a wheeze. 

But that didn’t make sense, because they were home, weren’t they? His eyebrows twitched downward and he felt a little dizzy. Snow was falling all around Steve, but he didn’t seem at all cold just in pants and an undershirt, his suspenders hanging loose at his hips. He was sitting cross-legged and barefoot, sunlight streaming down from somewhere to get caught in his hair. His lips moved, talking to Bucky with a laugh already in his eyes, but Bucky couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t hear anything but the rushing of water nearby, his ragged breathing, and the soft sounds of the snow as it touched down.

Bucky wanted to move his arm, reach out for Steve. Touch him, run fingers through his hair, hold him close. _Please, just one more time..._ His right arm wouldn’t obey, giving just one hard twitch and then going still again. And his left ... Bucky wasn’t going to look over there. He’d made that mistake once. But that was confusing too. 

Bucky blinked, and Steve changed, the angles in his face sharpening some, his hair getting neater, the pimples fading away. He was standing now, looking down at Bucky with his hands tucked in his pockets. He wasn’t smiling anymore, that innocent boyish glee replaced by adult heaviness. Disappointment. That sad, faraway look that had always made Bucky feel compelled to try to make him laugh any way possible. He said something else, and it seemed important, but Bucky still couldn’t hear. 

_Take me home, Stevie,_ he tried to say, trying to reach again. But Steve was receding, fading away as he got even smaller, drifting backward from Bucky as his lips still moved. _No!_ Bucky called, the word only manifesting as a weak croak. _It hurts, Steve, I wanna go home!_

When Steve was gone, Bucky stared after him for a long time before he turned his face up to the sky again. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t have the breath or the energy. He was alone, and he remembered now that he had fallen, and all that was left was to wait to die.

~~~~

_October 15, 1944_

_Steve,_

_I almost did it, the other night when I was in your tent. The whiskey went straight to my head and I almost told you everything. What you mean to me, how I feel about you. With the way you were looking at me, I kept thinking maybe it would be okay. Maybe you’d understand, like you always do._

_Maybe you love me back._

_If you do, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a goddamn coward, and I’m sorry we’re in this mess. Maybe if we make it out, make it back home, then I’ll tell you everything. I just can’t lose you, especially here, where all we’ve got is each other._

_Don’t hold it against me?_

_Love,  
Bucky_

~~~~

The hospital in Bern had done well taking care of him. Not that he needed too much of it, considering the rate at which he was healing. Bucky didn’t much like being referred to as a miracle, but for once some people were as fascinated with him as they were with Steve. Having Captain America briefly in their hallways had delighted the staff, and Bucky had sat on his hospital bed with a strange-feeling expression on his face as he listened to Steve tell the story to yet another nurse. 

The story was about how he dove off of the train after Bucky, crashing into trees and sliding down the slopes to get to the bottom to reach his very best friend. He’d gotten pretty banged up, but he’d managed to find Bucky, tie what was left of his left arm off, and keep him warm enough to stay alive while they waited for rescue. 

Bucky didn’t remember any of it. His recollection stopped abruptly at riding the line down to the top of the train. But Steve had told him enough for him to piece it together in his imagination. He wasn’t sure he wanted to remember. His dreams were bad enough already.

Steve couldn’t stay long, however. There was still a war to fight, still more heroics to perform. As the two of them said their hard goodbye-for-nows, Steve admitted that now it was personal. He was going to make Red Skull pay for the loss of Bucky’s arm. “But don’t worry,” he said, giving Bucky a smile as he squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll be back and on your case again in no time.”

“That’s really not appealing, Rogers,” Bucky had lobbed back with a forced smirk.

There had only been three days between that and Colonel Phillips walking into Bucky’s hospital room. 

He’d been reading a newspaper -- already a week old, it was hard to find a paper in English in Bern -- when there was a soft throat-clearing off to his side. Bucky looked up to see Colonel Phillips walking in, with Agent Carter right behind him. After setting the paper down on his legs, Bucky’s hand lifted in an automatic salute, but only got halfway as Phillips took off his cap.

It was Peggy’s face more than anything that gave them away. She’d done her best to cover her puffy reddened eyes with makeup, but nothing could hide it all, and she’d neglected to put on that signature red lipstick. Nor would she meet Bucky’s eyes. It made his stomach clench painfully, and dread flooded him. Phillips opened his mouth to start talking to him, but Bucky cut him off with a moaned, “oh no.” It wasn’t something he could stop, much like the tremor that started in his core and radiated outward.

“Son, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Colonel Phillips began in the most gentle tone Bucky had ever heard him use. Peggy’s chin wobbled before she clenched it. Bucky’s heart sank straight through the floor and he barely heard the rest of what Phillips said. The words came through in pieces: _Captain Rogers. Plane. Crashed into the Arctic. Heroic sacrifice._

“Stark thinks he can trace the Tesseract, and he’s looking,” Phillips concluded, more than aware that Bucky was hardly listening to him. The young Sergeant had the look of a man who’d just been told he’d lost everything. “But given that there’s been no wreckage visible by air ... we’re not hopeful.”

The two of them waited almost a solid three minutes for Bucky to say something. He didn’t. Eventually, Phillips patted him gently on the shoulder and re-donned his cap. “We’re getting your papers together, Sergeant. You should be putting Europe behind you and shipping home by next week.” With that, he turned and walked out the door. Peggy lingered for only a moment, looking as though she wanted to speak to Bucky, but in the end she wordlessly turned and followed the Colonel.

Bucky sat and stared out the window for several hours, feeling numb and trying to digest the fact that Steve was ... gone. Crashed into the freezing ocean to save the world. Hope would surface every so often that he’d survived and would be rescued, but some instinct in Bucky’s gut knew it wasn’t true. He just knew. 

He didn’t really cry until Gabe and Jim came to see him. Gabe put a ratty shoebox down on the small table in the room as he and Jim pulled up chairs around Bucky’s bed, and that was what did it. Bucky knew exactly what was in there. All of the letters he’d written to Steve, to be given to him in case Bucky died. Now the guys were bringing them back, because there was no Steve anymore to give them to.

Bucky sobbed, clutching at the back of Gabe’s jacket, until everything ached and he didn’t have the energy to sob anymore. Then he just leaked for quite a while longer, grateful for the two friends who silently sat and let him get it out. What was there to say, anyway? 

They didn’t leave until he’d slipped into an exhausted sleep. Bucky dreamed of falling into unfathomable cold.

~~~~

_December 24, 1944_

_Merry Christmas, Stevie._

_Love,  
Bucky_

~~~~

On his last night in Bern, the Howling Commandos got together for a drink. Bucky showed up like he’d promised he would, in his dress uniform with the left sleeve pinned up neatly. His face was stoic as the drinks were passed around, but the dark circles under his eyes and the redness around his nose betrayed him.

None of the guys commented. When they all stood and raised their glasses in a toast to Captain Steve Rogers, Bucky stayed where he was. He stared down into his bourbon, studying the way his fingers curled around the glass.

“To the Captain,” the Commandos said.

Bucky said nothing.

~~~~

_February 9, 1945_

_Dear Steve,_

_We’ve been busy, and you’ve been amazing. There’s really not any other word for it, even if you hate hearing it. We’ve got that red-faced bastard on the run, and he can’t run forever. We’re going to get Zola too, and I plan to pay him back personally for all the poking and prodding he did to me._

_Through it all, I’m glad that you’ve kept your head on straight. As straight as it ever was, anyway. I’d hate to have to try and knock you back into line, you big doofus. Keeping you humble could be a full time job, but you’re doing okay, I guess._

_Agent Carter likes you, it’s pretty obvious to everyone BUT you. It hurts my chest sometimes. But you look like an even bigger idiot when you look at her, so I won’t get in the way. She’s smart as a whip and strong and real easy on the eyes, the kind of woman you deserve. You always deserved a woman like that, I hope you know. Don’t think that you’re only worthy now that your body changed. It’s not true. You were always a good man, now you’re just a bigger good man. Peggy better know it too, or I’ll be telling her._

_I’m no dummy, Steve, I know what it would be like if we tried to be together. If you even wanted to. You’re famous now, an American hero, and if it got out that you’re a fairy, it would be big trouble. I won’t do that to you. I couldn’t put you in that danger when we were younger and you were smaller, and I can’t do it to you now. You’ve gained so much ground, what kind of friend would I be to set you back like that? I love you, all I want in the end is for you to be happy._

_I’m dying to kiss you and see what you feel like under that uniform too, of course. But I know that’s selfish._

_I can’t wait to go home._

_Love,  
Bucky_

~~~~

Rebecca was there to greet him when he got off the plane in New York. She managed to hold her tears back until they hugged, but then it was all over. Bucky patted her shaking back, feeling strangely empty. He was back home, on American soil, in the arms of his loving little sister, but it felt hollow. Unimportant. 

His apartment was the same, which also felt wrong. He wasn’t even sure why Rebecca had insisted on talking the landlord into holding the damn thing for him. But now it was nice to know that he would have some privacy soon. Rebecca stayed to cook him dinner, assuring him over and over again that the kids were with a sitter, she could stay for as long as he wanted. Bucky ate obediently, even though it all tasted like muck to him, and he managed to shoo his sister out once the dishes were done. Even as she was slipping out the door, she was still offering to hang around and listen to the radio with him. Bucky claimed exhaustion and locked up after her with some relief. 

Once he was sure she was really gone, he walked down to the nearest liquor store, trying to absorb the New York atmosphere again. It was more crowded and noisy than he remembered, even at this time of evening. A car backfiring made him jump and whirl around, his right hand darting for a pistol at his hip that wasn’t there. He got some funny looks -- looks that drifted down to his missing arm -- and Bucky scowled them away, ducking his head as he hurried on.

Getting drunk that night was bliss.

~~~~

_May 7th, 1945_

_Steve,_

_I can’t believe you’re really gone._  
They say they’ll keep looking.  
But 

~~~~

It wasn’t until over two months later that Bucky realized the depth of his mistake. 

Since Steve hadn’t had any next of kin, and Bucky had been there and convenient, they’d given Steve’s personal effects to Bucky. He’d brought the box home, cradled on his lap on the plane, but he hadn’t been able to open it. He thought he knew what was in there, anyway. Some civilian clothes, Steve’s uniforms, the few letters he’d gotten from friends back home, his sketchbooks. So many sketchbooks. Though Bucky had been tempted to go browsing through them a few times -- usually when he was very drunk -- he never did. He’d gotten as far as putting his hand on the box flap, then everything hurt too much and he chickened out.

Then one day there was a man who showed up at his door, claiming to be a writer for some magazine, and he wanted to do an article on Steve’s artistic talent. He’d heard that Bucky had gotten his sketchbooks, and he was still asking very politely to see them when Bucky slammed the door in his face. It was early afternoon, but he was still half-soused and not in the mood to listen to some skinny art nerd beg to see the great Captain America’s work.

Besides, he hadn’t had the chance to look at the books; maybe there were things in there that Steve wouldn’t have wanted the public to see. It seemed reasonable, and since he was thinking about it now ...

Bucky settled in on the bed in a patch of sunlight, a short glass of whiskey nestled in the crook of his knee, a sketchbook on the other leg. He flipped it open and started to browse. 

He didn’t know what he’d expected. Some architectural drawings, portraits of the Commandos, maybe some scenery and some silly doodles. Those things were present, that was for sure, but the majority of Steve’s drawings were of one subject. They were Bucky. His lips parted slowly and his hand started to lightly tremble as he turned page after page. There he was in uniform, gazing into the distance; there he was laughing; there he was staring out from the page with a sublime smile on his lips. Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn that smile. Some were rough sketches, some were lovingly detailed portraits that could’ve hung in any museum. Every single one felt like it chipped at Bucky’s heart a little more.

There were some blank pages in the center of the book, and Bucky thought he’d reached the end -- all the while his doubts trying to justify this, like maybe Steve had just kept themed sketchbooks and this was his -- but a bit of additional flipping proved him wrong. There were about ten pages of drawings in the back, and they were ... different. Bucky saw a study of his own mouth and chin, his bottom lip caught in his teeth, a suggestive little quirk to one corner. He saw his bare back, one elbow up in the air, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck. Steve had drawn him from the side, completely naked, one hand covering himself while he grinned over at the invisible onlooker. Presumably at Steve. Bucky knew he’d never been in that position in real life, but the fact that Steve had imagined it hit him in the chest like a physical thing.

Bucky’s shaking fingers flipped faster, finding more and more suggestive art. Steve had avoided drawing Buckys crotch in all of them, but some of the body positions and the facial expressions were unmistakably sexual. Bucky had never seen his own face as he’d had an orgasm, but he had to imagine it looked a lot like what was on those pages.

Most of the other sketchbooks were the same: lots of Bucky, with the sexy stuff in the back. Some had pages obviously torn out, and Bucky had to wonder what Steve had done with those, and why he’d deemed them unworthy of staying in the book. But mostly he was reeling from what this discovery could possibly mean.

Yes, they’d always spent a lot of time together, and Steve had been just as familiar with Bucky’s face as the other way around. Yes, they’d been best friends. And yes, Bucky was half-drunk and still grieving, but he swore he could feel the emotion in those drawings. 

Steve had drawn Bucky in the same way that Bucky had written him letters.

Steve had loved him too.

Hours later, Bucky was passed out on the floor when Rebecca let herself in. The downstairs neighbors had called her, complaining about the noise, and she sighed softly as she saw why. The living room was trashed, a broken lamp on the floor, the couch overturned, the big bookshelf over on its side. Rebecca didn’t have to look hard to spot at least three empty bottles. 

She located her heap of a brother and crouched down to make sure he was alive. Bucky was breathing, labored and unsteady, but deeply enough that Rebecca wasn’t worried. Not for his immediate safety, anyway. 

Rebecca cleaned up what she could, sweeping up the broken glass and righting the furniture that she could lift. She tucked a pillow under Bucky’s head and draped a blanket over him so he wouldn’t catch a chill. Thanks to her going grocery shopping for him, there were some things in the icebox to make a sandwich with, so Rebecca did so, setting the plate back into the fridge next to the milk bottle and jar of pickles. She could only hope he would actually eat when he woke up. 

After scribbling a note, inviting him -- yet again -- to dinner the next day, Rebecca quietly slipped out of the apartment and locked up behind her.

~~~~

_January 24, 1946_

_Stevie,_

_I miss you so much, it’s hard to breathe. Every day is a struggle. To get up, to open the windows, to talk to people, to eat enough. To keep going._

_I can’t believe I was so blind. Blind and scared. I should’ve told you. I should’ve told you._

_I should’ve told you._

_Maybe then things would be different._

_You were there when I fell, but I wasn’t there when you did. I’m so fucking sorry Steve. I wish I’d been there._

_I miss you I love you I’m sorry_

_Buck_

~~~~

He was slim and petite and his hair was blond, and that was why Bucky had picked him. He’d been gathering his courage all night, drinking at a bar in a neighborhood that was known for these kinds of places. There was a bubbling sexuality under all the cigarette smoke and men’s laughter, and the dancefloor didn’t have a single skirt on it.

Bucky couldn’t even say he’d ended up there by accident -- he hadn’t. It probably hadn’t been the best decision he’d ever made, but good decisions were coming fewer and farther between, now. It seemed like all he could try to accomplish anymore was temporarily soothing that empty, yawning ache inside himself. Some days it worked better than others.

He’d drank a lot and tried to look inconspicuous at his table near the back, his gaze crawling over the other men in the bar. There were some who even favored Steve, big strapping young men with strong jaws and sensual lips. Bucky had been contemplating how to approach one of them when some bodies shifted around the bar and he spotted the one he _really_ wanted. 

Now his hand was buried in that mop of blond hair, and his shoulder blades were pressed against the restroom wall. The guy was the perfect height on his knees, and with his alcohol-blurred vision, Bucky was almost able to pretend it was Steve. Almost.

He was feeling the pleasure of a mouth on his cock, but he wasn’t at the same time. After a few minutes of not getting much of anywhere, the blond pulled back and looked up at Bucky with thinly veiled impatience. “Listen pal, if you can’t--”

“Shut up,” Bucky growled and pushed the guy’s head back down. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to conjure up Steve in his mind. Steve’s smile, Steve’s beautiful lips, Steve’s blush. He seemed so close and yet so terribly far away. But the voice just then had been all wrong, and this kid’s eyes were brown, and he’d ruined it completely.

After another minute or so of blondie doing his best, Bucky let go of his hair and nudged him away, turning his hips to one side as sorrow welled up inside of him all over again. Turning his cheek against the wall, he fumbled to tuck his dick away and zip up again. The smaller man stood up, looking annoyed, and started again, “You prob’ly just had too many--”

“Here,” Bucky cut him off, plunging his hand into his pocket. He brought out a crumpled ten dollar bill and shoved it outward. “Just take it and go.”

There was a hesitation, but Bucky couldn’t have cared less about the guy’s half-offended look. Ten dollars was a lot of money though, and not bad for a failed blowjob. Not-Steve grabbed the cash and turned to dart out of the restroom before Bucky could change his mind, leaving him in peace. He slid down the wall until his ass hit the dirty floor and drew his knees up to hug with the one arm he had left. Bucky put his face down into the dim safety of his own limbs and let the sadness overwhelm him. 

He cried until there was nothing left in him again, then picked himself up to go home.

~~~~

_Becca,_

_I’m sorry. I can’t._

_-James._

Bucky let the pen fall out of his hand and clatter onto the desk, staring down at those half-dozen words to his sister. What else was there to say? Nothing. She would know what he meant, even if she couldn’t understand it. Bucky hated to leave a mess for her, but he was going to do it in the bathtub to try and keep that to a minimum. The shower curtain should catch most of it, he thought.

It had been one full, miserable year. No one could say that Bucky hadn’t tried. He really had. He’d tried odd jobs, even though his pension from the Army kept him more than comfortable. But there was only so much a cripple could do, and sometimes he didn’t show up at all. He’d tried friends, only to slowly lose them one by one, mostly to his own behavior. He’d even tried a couple of girls, though that had always ended in disappointment for them and more self-loathing for him. He’d tried family, but Rebecca’s kids always acted a little afraid of him. Probably because he often showed up drunk. Bucky knew he wasn’t anything but a drain on his poor sister.

Really, the only thing he’d been successful at was drinking. He’d lost weight, he’d stopped shaving every day, and he’d only had a handful of sober nights in the past year. All of his nights had been awful, but those had been worse. So Bucky stayed pickled when he could. It helped him avoid the nightmares at least half of the time.

He picked up the bottle of cheap gin from his writing desk and walked over to the window as he put it to his lips. There wasn’t much to see but the side of the building across the alley, but Bucky looked out of it anyway. He leaned to look upward, toward the stars, but he couldn’t make them out. He wouldn’t have minded dying under a sky full of stars, but the bathroom ceiling would have to do.

It had been one year exactly since Steve had disappeared into the water and ice of the Arctic. The rescue missions had been called off ages ago, and with good reason. Captain Steve Rogers was dead. It seemed fitting to swallow a bullet on the anniversary of the death of the man he loved. Bucky had told him he would be with him until the end, but he hadn’t been. Steve had died alone, and that ate Bucky up inside. He couldn’t help but feel like he _should’ve_ been there, had been _fated_ to be there, but he wasn’t. He should’ve died alongside him, holding onto him as they crashed into the water. He should’ve told him everything, right at the end, so Steve could’ve known he was _loved_. His last breaths should’ve come out of Steve’s lungs.

He lifted the bottle in his hand toward the sky and murmured, “To the Captain.” He turned to shuffle back to his desk and traded the gin for his pistol before Bucky made his way to the bathroom.

Steve’s line had ended, and Bucky’s had gone on, and it hadn’t been right since. None of it. Bucky couldn’t see a future anymore that wasn’t just more misery, and he was so tired and so ready to fall into the dark. 

~~~~

_May 4th, 1946_

_Dear Steve,_

_I hope if you can see me, you’re not disappointed. Rebecca tried to tell me a hundred times that you’re in Heaven, still sort of with me, and I should try to pull it together to make you proud. I don’t really believe that horseshit. I never feel your presence. I ALWAYS feel your absence. It’s like a giant hole in my chest, and it keeps bleeding, but no one can see it but me._

_I think you would understand. I was with you through your darkest; I’ll never forget how hard you held onto me when you found out your mom died. I watched the world push you down so many times, and I admired you more every time you got back up again, dusted off, and carried on. You were always braver than me, a better man than me._

_You showed the world what you were made of after all. You saved it. The world. You saved me. But I always knew what you were made of, and if I could, I would swap places with you. You deserved to stay longer. To be happier._

_I’m sorry for all the wrong I did you by being afraid. I see now that fear doesn’t matter, we could’ve faced anything together and done it with our heads held high. Fuck what they would’ve thought, right Stevie? I’m sorry if you ever felt alone, even for a minute. It’s an awful feeling, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I’m sorry I never got to kiss you, never got to make you blush all over, never told you how you broke my heart over and over again with how beautiful you were, even before they changed you. I’m sorry I sabotaged so many of your dates because I was a selfish bastard with your time. I’m sorry I wasted the time that we did have. I’m sorry I wasn’t there at the end, to hold on to you so we could face the end of the line together._

_I’m putting all your sketchbooks and my letters to you in a safe hiding place. It’s the last thing I can do for you, protect your reputation. Nobody needs to know that Captain America loved a man. Or that that man loved him back, but was too stupid and cowardly to ever say so._

_Once this last part of you is at rest, I’m going to come home and shoot myself. I know you wouldn’t want me to, but I just can’t do it anymore, Steve. It all hurts too much. I failed at everything I should’ve done for you, and now you’re gone, and there’s nothing else for me here but pain. I can’t live with it. I can’t live with me. You were always home to me, and now I’ll never have a home here again._

_I don’t even know anymore what I believe in, but I hope the end is peaceful. I hope it’s just like being asleep, where you don’t even know time is passing. I hope I get to see you there. I hope you know I’m coming and you’re waiting for me with a big smile and a Coney Island funnel cake. And if I can’t have that, I hope I get to dream about you. And if I don’t, I hope it’s dark and I hope it’s quiet._

_That’s probably too much to hope for, but it’s all I can do now._

_I love you, Steven Grant Rogers. Always have, always will. I’m right behind you, buddy, I’m coming home._

_Love,  
Bucky_


End file.
